Chapter 5: Rook takes Knight.

A pure white armoured humanoid, brandishing a huge sword with ease, steps out into the gateway. "You think we didn't come to wage war?" He says opening his arms and gesturing to inside the caverns. "We see your army coming and are looking forward to crushing it under the heel of our boots. The screams will be music to my ears and food for my soul. Then we will take your women and your children back to our home and subject them to unspeakable horrors."

The hololith flickered slightly, the poor quality of the pict-capture device proving more than a little distracting - a fact that contributed precisely nothing to the already-limited reserves of sympathy the viewer felt for the sickly individual it portrayed. The man's face was gaunt almost to the point of starvation, hair lank and greasy, eyes staring with badly-dilated pupils that darted between the picter and an unseen point beyond. "You see, Master Aubray, I cannot make this month's payment. Trade has been bad for the hive this quarter, expected mineral gains have not been located, the flow of resources is stifled and every throne must be stretched to meet costs. I am aware of Madame Ragnar's expectations, but if I were to make the payments in full then critical services about the hive would be left unfunded. Health centres, scholae, arbitrators, we must fund these," the man paused, swallowing, the fear palpable in his eyes. The viewer rolled his in turn, but watched on. "I'm sure you must understand, Sir, and your Mistress by extension, if this quarter's payments are not made. The balance will be restored soon of course, for Madame Ragnar is a most valued contributor to our humble hive, and we are as ever thankful for your custom," the man looked definitively relieved as he gave the most cursory "Ave Imperator," and ended the pict-recording, and his viewer could well understand why. He cracked his knuckles with a satisfying pop, before activating the pict-capter on his own desk.

"Hive-Master Plennik, I have asked you before not to speak through your intermediaries. They irk me. I understand that you cannot make your payments for this quarter, of course - I see that amasec prices have tripled recently in your sub-sector, and the plantation riots on Havanar V are wreaking havoc on tabac supplies, which must be so hard for you and your fellow nobles. I'm sure you'll understand in turn if your supply shipments don't arrive this quarter. Madame Ragnar does not appreciate it when her time is wasted and respect is lacking in her customers. You will no doubt need those arbitrators when the population start asking after their grain shipments. I look forward to receiving the next set of payments, at double the previous figure. After that, we can discuss the return of your hive's food shipments. A pleasure as always," he clicked off the pict-capter, allowing his disdainful sneer to break into a broad, satisfied grin. He leaned back in his chair, reached across his desk to take up a tumbler of genuine millenial joiliq, from which he took a self-satisfied sip, and reached for his intercom control.

"Monck," he hailed his secretary outside, an earnest young man with two augmetic legs, a testament to the right sort of Guard service. "Pass on this message to Hive-Master Plennik on Castrio. See if we can't get some of our friends in the hive gangs to deliver it. Then have our supply ships sit in orbit for a week or so, really let them stew."

"Yes, sir."

Alessander Cornelius di Benzies-Aubray clicked off the intercom, took another moment to savour the happy position in which he found himself, and then leaned back into the screen of the cogitator built into his broad, neo-oak desk. The list of memos and documents for his attention was still enough to make him almost balk, and even as he watched a large set more arrived in his inbox, but he was in a good mood, one fuelled by alcohol from another millenium and the command of the sort of power lost of his old colleagues would have given one eye for, and he set to it happily.

"Let's see...bill...bill...bill...invitation to...I think not!...bill...a Kni-what?" This last document brought him up sharp. He'd been quite firm in instituting the requirement that every financial effort made involving any of Lady Ragnar's assets be filed and reported to him immediately, usually so he had plenty of warning of when he'd have to pay a visit to someone and channel his old drill abbot, Father Skott, in making his disapproval of wasteful spending quite clear. So what he hadn't expected was for Lady Ragnar herself to have quietly requisitioned the assets necessary to secure and recover a crashed Knight-Titan on the planet they orbited even now. The fuel costs for the recovery shuttle alone stretched into the hundreds of thousands of thrones, not to mention the cost of deploying the combat servitors. More money and more resources were going into this single endeavour than were being spent in whole subsectors of profitable activity. Simply put, this was an extravagance they - almost - could not afford.

Fortunately, it was merely almost unaffordable. Lady Ragnar may not have been the wealthiest Rogue Trader in the Imperium, but she still had access to resources greater than some feral worlds, and this was just another expression of their use. But one he ought to supervise personally.

He rolled his neck joints. It had been too long since he'd gone out in the field, and he really ought to 'supervise' the asset retrieval. Besides, it might be fun. Retrieving the battered old hellgun from his quarters filled him with a sense of warm nostalgia, but unlike so many deployments into hot dropzones in the back of a shaking Valkyrie, he was very pleased to make his ride down to the surface in the comfort of a grav-couch aboard one of the Solanasae's landers. He barely even noticed as the craft's steep descent shifted into a stationary hover above the rapidly-growing Imperial military camp, before settling down on a temporary landing pad etched into the dust of the plains. Emerging from the craft, he flagged down a passing serf in the robes of House Ragnar, and demanded directions towards her ladyship. Receiving them, he was able to flag down a passing Salamander reconnaissance vehicle, and one short assertion of authority he was making his heavily-armed way towards what he was becoming increasingly sure was more than just a simple recovery of a very profitable machine, a notion reaffirmed when the Salamander skewed to a halt atop a ridge overlooking a xenos compound.

His expression curdled to a sneer. Dark Eldar. So that was how it was going to be. He checked the charge on his hellgun, loosened his pistol in its holster, and set off towards Lady Ragnar as she stood several hundred metres off, accompanied by three others he did not recognise - likely the new crew he had received reports on. What was a lot less reassuring was the sight ahead of one of the xenos emerging from the compound, and he opened up to a jog as he moved to meet them.

"Lady Ragnar," he greeted her as he approached. "A fine day for an excursion planetside, but I'm sure I could have recommended a more pleasant resort. Or at least one with more amenable hosts," he sized up the xeno, already considering his opening move.

"Oh yeah, totally hitting on her." Kuros answers earnestly. He leaves his gun in his holster. He seems to have forgotten he has it. Still whispering "I must admit, this is very exciting, we have a full crew and we are negotiating instead of shooting. Let's see if our talkie talkie commander is up to snuff!"

"Well then let's cut the chatter." He laughs swinging his massive blade and charging.

"Cry me a warp fueled river."

He jumps and hits Ronda in her shoulder. (15 damage pen 6)